Like their pals Jack White and Brendan Benson (the Detroit bigwigs who got this album reissued by V2 after an initial release on Motor City indie Cass Records last year), Blanche play music whose retro feel is actually a product of modern sensibilities. That is, it feels old because the band are trying to make it sound that way. The music itself is foggy-window country rock. It shares some stylistic ground with the White Stripesí messy garage punk, but Blanche seem to have reached it from the opposite direction: their tempos and the volume articulate the (real or imagined) experience of discovering Led Zeppelin after years spent listening to the Carter Family. What resonated with the members of Blanche about the Carters is their creepy-hillbilly vibe, which they replicate here with help from Detroit-bred producer (and His Name Is Alive mastermind) Warn Defever. In "Whoís To Say," singer Dan John Miller owns up to his "clammy hands and nervous laugh" over yawning pedal steel and backing vocals from Benson; in "Superstition," he tries to convince himself that black cats and broken mirrors wonít hurt him. In his world, though, they will.

(Blanche headline this Friday, June 10, at T.T. the Bearís Place, 10 Brookline Street in Central Square, with the Ditty Bops, the Low-Country Messiahs, and the Irreverends; call 617-492-BEAR.)